Fillets of Plaice

by Gerald Malcolm Durrell

  “I don’t think anybody was, with the possible exception of me. I’ve got some nice specimens out of it.”

  “But what are we going to do now?” said Martin, gazing at the wreckage of the table.

  I sat him down in a chair.

  “I sent the D.C. to call you because I said you could control the situation,” I explained. “Pious has gone to fetch the chop. What it’ll be, God only knows, but at least it will be something to eat. In the meantime, you must try and fill the D.C. up with as much gin as possible.”

  “I’ve got plenty of gin,” said Martin earnestly.

  “Well, there you are,” I said soothingly. “The problem’s almost solved.”

  “But I don’t see how...” Martin said.

  “Look, just don’t think about it. Leave it to me. The point is, you have to appear as though you are in control of the situation.”

  “Oh. Yes, I see what you mean,” said Martin.

  I called Amos and John from the kitchen.

  “Clean up this table, polish it and put things for chop,” I said.

  “Yes, sah,” they said in a chorus.

  “Pious done go for chop. You tell Jesus and my cook they can make new chop.”

  “Yes, sah.”

  “But you go make the table look fine like before, you hear?”

  “Please, sah,” said Amos.

  “Whatee?” I asked.

  “Masa done catch all de snakes from inside dere?” inquired Amos, pointing at the wreckage of the punka.

  “Yes,” I said. “You no go fear. I done catch all the beef.”

  “I don’t know how you organise things so well,” said Martin.

  “Listen,” I said, “as far as the D.C. is concerned, you’ve organised all this. Now, when we join them you assume an almost military pose. You’ve got to give the D.C. the impression that while I was more concerned with my animals you had everything else under perfect control. And don’t apologise every five minutes! We’ll get him well ginned up and Pious will have the food under control so don’t worry about that. All you have to do is give the impression that although this is a disaster, it is a very minor one and you are quite sure that on thinking it over the D.C. will see the funny side of it.”

  “The funny side of it?” said Martin faintly.

  “Yes,” I said. “How long have you been in the Colonial Service?”

  “Since I was twenty-one,” he said.

  “Don’t you realise that people like that pompous ass dine out on stories like this? You’ve probably done yourself more good than harm.”

  “Are you sure?” said Martin doubtfully.

  “You think about it,” I said. “Now let’s go out onto the veranda.”

  So we joined the D.C on the veranda and found that the others had been doing stalwart service. Mary had given the D.C. a long lecture on orchids and flower arrangements. McGrade had given him such a complicated discourse on bridge building and road maintenance that I don’t think even he could have understood. And Robin had come in at just the right moment to discuss literature and art, two subjects about which the D.C. knew nothing.

  I dug Martin in the ribs and he straightened up.

  “I’m terribly sorry about that, sir,” he said. “Most unfortunate. I’m afraid my boy didn’t check on the hooks in the ceiling. However, I have... er... organised everything and we should have chop in about an hour. Terribly sorry to keep you waiting.”

  He subsided into a chair and mopped his face with his handkerchief.

  The D.C. looked at him speculatively and drained his tenth gin.

  “I don’t usually,” he said acidly, “in the course of my duties have fans dropped on my head.”

  There was a short but ominous silence. It was obvious that Martin could think of nothing to say, so I stepped into the breach.

  “I must say, sir, that I was damned glad to have you there,” I said.

  I turned to the others.

  “Of course, you all didn’t see it but there was a mamba in that fan. If it hadn’t been for the D.C., I doubt whether I would have got it.”

  “A mamba!” squeaked Mary.

  “Yes,” I said, “and he was in a very nasty mood, I can assure you. But fortunately the D.C. kept his head and so we managed to catch it.”

  “Well,” said the D.C., “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I helped very much.”

  “Oh that’s modesty, sir,” I said. “Most people, as I told you, would have panicked. After all, a mamba is supposed to be the most deadly snake in Africa.”

  “A mamba!” said Mary. “Fancy that! Think of it, coiled there over our heads waiting to attack! I do think you were both awfully brave.”

  “By Jove, yes,” said Robin smoothly. “I’m afraid I would have run like a hare.”

  “So would I,” said McGrade, who was built like an all-in wrestler and not afraid of anything.

  “Well,” said the D.C. deprecatingly, having found himself forced into the position of hero, “you get used to this sort of situation, you know, especially when you’re trekking around in the bush.”

  He embarked on a long and slightly incoherent story about a leopard he had nearly shot once and we all sighed with relief when Pious emerged out of the gloom and informed us that our second dinner was ready.

  Cold baked beans and tinned salmon were not what one would call a gastronomic delight, but they served their purpose and by the end of dinner, full of gin, the D.C. was telling us some most improbable snake stories.

  Fortunately, the flute salad had not been within range of the catastrophe and so this had been salvaged and after we had eaten it we all agreed that Mary, who had put her heart and soul into it, had done us proud and that it was the flute salad to end all flute salads.

  When we finally left I thanked the D.C. once more for his courage in helping me catch the mamba.

  “Nothing, my dear fellow,” he said, waving his hand airily. “Nothing, I assure you. Glad to have been of assistance.”

  The following day, Martin, in spite of all our efforts, was inconsolable. The D.C., he said, had been rather frosty when he had left and he was convinced that his next posting would be back to the hellhole of Umchichi. There was nothing we could do but write polite notes to the D.C. thanking him for the disastrous dinner party. I did manage to insert in mine additional thanks for the considerable help that his D.O. had given me. I said that in my experience in West Africa Martin was one of the best and most efficient D.O.s I had come across.

  Shortly after that I had to move my animals down-country to catch the ship back to England and the whole incident faded from my mind.

  Then, some six months later, I got a brief note from Martin, In it he said,

  “You were quite right, old boy, about this dining out on stories stuff. The D.C. is now telling everybody how he caught a green mamba for you on the dining-room table while you were apparently so petrified with fright that you couldn’t do anything sensible. I’ve got a promotion and go to Enugu next month. I can’t thank you all enough for making the dinner party such a success.”

  5

  A Question of Degrees

  THE family doctor shook his head mote in sorrow than in anger.

  “Strain,” he repeated. “Over-work and over-worry. What you need is three weeks in Abbotsford.”

  “You mean the loony bin?” I asked.

  “It isn’t a loony bin. It’s a highly respectable nursing home that specialises in nervous complaints,” he said severely.

  “In other words a loony bin,” I said.

  “I thought that you would have known better,” said the family doctor sadly.

  “A loose generic term,” I said. “Is it that sprawling Strawberry Hill Gothic edifice that looks like Dracula’s castle — the thing straight out of Hollywood — on the way to Surbiton?”

  “Yes, that’s the place.”

  “Well, I don’t suppose that will be so bad,” I said judiciously. “I can nip up to town to see my friends and t
he odd show...”

  “You will do nothing of the sort,” the family doctor interrupted firmly. “Complete rest and quiet is what you need.”

  “Couldn’t I have a going-in party?” I pleaded.

  “A going-in party?”

  “Well, debs have their coming-out parties. Why can’t I have a going-in party? Just a select band of friends to wish me God Speed on my way to the padded cell.”

  The family doctor winced and sighed.

  “You will probably have it even if I tell you not to,” he said in a resigned manner, so I suppose you can.”

  The party was a small one held in an excellent curry restaurant in Soho. It was during the course of the evening that I felt something trickling down my chin and, on wiping my mouth with my napkin, I was surprised to see it stained with blood. It was obvious that my nose was bleeding. Fortunately, both the lighting and the décor of the restaurant lent themselves well to this manifestation and I managed to staunch the flow without any untoward comment. I was not so lucky on the following day.

  It was a week before Christmas and it was therefore necessary for me — on my way to Abbotsford — to deviate from my route slightly so as to call in at the Kings Road to deliver an almost life-sized Teddy bear who squatted regally in a transparent plastic bag and wore nothing except a handsome maroon-coloured tie.

  I got out of the taxi, clasping the bear round its ample middle, rang the front door bell, and my nose started to bleed copiously. It was well-nigh impossible, I discovered, to hold the bear under one arm while staunching the flow of blood with the other, so I put the bear between my legs, thus freeing my hands.

  “What are you doing?” inquired my wife from the interior of the taxi.

  “By dose is bleeding again,” I said through my blood-stained handkerchief.

  With the bear between my legs and the blood streaming down my face, I presented an arresting sight even by Kings Road standards. A small crowd collected.

  “Give the bear to the sweet-shop next door and ask them to give it to Peter,” my wife hissed. “You can’t stand there like that.”

  The crowd had hitherto been silent, digesting this slightly macabre spectacle. Now a new woman joined them and gaped upon the mystery.

  “Wot’s ’appening?” she inquired of the world in general.

  “ ’E was bit by ’is Teddy bear,” said a man and the crowd laughed uproariously at the joke.

  I dived into the sanctuary of the sweet shop, deposited the Teddy bear and then rushed panting out to the taxi.

  “You shouldn’t rush about so,” said my wife as the taxi got under way. “You’re supposed to take it easy.”

  “How can I dake it easy?” I inquired aggrievedly, “when by bloody dose is bleeding and I’m holding a sodding great Deddy bear?”

  “Just lie back and relax,” said my wife soothingly.

  Relax, I thought, yes, that was it, relax. I would have three glorious weeks to relax in, being ministered unto by kindly nurses, only having to make momentous decisions like what I would have for lunch or the exact temperature of my bath water. Relax, that was it. Complete peace and quiet. So, with this thought firmly in my mind, I entered Abbotsford.

  I had little time to register anything (except that the furniture and décor of my room were best Seaside Boarding House, circa 1920, and that the nurses were remarkably pretty) before I was wrapped in a golden cocoon of drugs and remained thus, sleeping and twitching in this delectable hibernation for twenty-four hours. Then I awoke, bright and brisk as a squirrel, and surveyed my new world. My first impression of the nurses had not, I decided, been erroneous. They were all in their individual ways remarkably attractive. It was rather like being looked after by the entrants for a Miss World competition.

  Of the day staff there was Lorraine, the Swedish blonde, whose eyes changed colour like a fiord in the sun; Zena, half English and half German, who had orange hair and completely circular and perpetually astonished blue eyes; and Nelly, a charmer from Basutoland, carved out of fine milk chocolate and with a little round nose like a brown button mushroom. Then there was the night staff. Breeda, short, blonde as honey and motherly, and, without doubt the most attractive of them all, Pimmie (a nickname derived from God knows what source), who was tall, slender and elf-like, with enormous greeny-hazel eyes the colour of a trout stream in spring. They were young and cheerful and went about their work with all the gaiety and eagerness to please of a litter of puppies. Their gambollings were presided over by two Sisters, both French, whose combined accents would have made Maurice Chevalier sound as though he had been brought up at Oxford and had worked for the BBC for a number of years. These were the Sisters Louise and Renée. and their blunt French practicality in action was a pleasure to watch and to listen to.

  It was on the second day, still slightly drugged, that, partly from desire and partly from a need for new scenery, I made my way down the corridor to the lavatory. Here I squatted, thinking deep thoughts, when suddenly my attention was attracted to a large blob of blood on the floor. Hallo, I thought to myself, with the rapid perception of the semi-drugged, someone’s cut themselves... been bleeding. Shaving, no doubt. But, shaving here? In the lavatory? Surely not. At that moment another blob of blood joined the first one on the floor and I suddenly realised that my nose was bleeding again. By the time I had grasped this, my nose was in full flood. Clasping several yards of lavatory paper to my face, I sped back to my room and rang the bell frantically. My nose was now bleeding so fast that a paper handkerchief applied to it became sodden and useless almost immediately.

  In answer to my cri de coeur the door opened and chocolate-brown Nelly appeared, dad in an overcoat. She was obviously just going off duty.

  “Lord, man,” said Nelly, gazing round-eyed at the bloody apparition. “Lord, yo’ is bleeding.”

  “I had come to the same conclusion,” I said. “Can you stop it for me, Nelly dear?”

  “Wait now... don’ yo’ move,” Nelly commanded, and rushed off down the corridor. Presently she reappeared looking distinctly distraught.

  “I can’ fin’ dem, I can’ fin’ dem,” she said, almost wringing her hands in despair.

  “What can’t you find?”

  “De keys, de keys,” wailed Nelly.

  Presumably the keys for some cupboard containing medicament for the rapid coagulation of blood, I thought.

  “Never mind,” I said soothingly, “can’t we use something else?”

  “No, no,” said Nelly, “de keys is best for putting down yo’ back.” My hopes for the future of European medicine in Africa suffered a severe blow at this remark.

  Lorraine and Zena, attracted by the noise, appeared in the doorway.

  “You’re bleeding,” said Zena in astonishment.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I can’ fin’ de keys, Zena. Have yo’ seen dem, Lorraine?”

  “Keys? No,” said Lorraine. “I haven’t seen any keys. What keys?”

  “To put down his back,” said Nelly.

  “Don’t you burn feathers beneath the nose?” asked Lorraine. “No, no, dat’s for fainting,” said Nelly, the expert on modem medicine.

  “How about sacrificing a black cock in a chalk circle?” I asked, beginning to enjoy the situation.

  “You’d never get that on National Health,” said Zena judiciously and with perfect seriousness.

  At that moment Breeda and Pimmie arrived to take over the night shift. Pimmie took in the situation with one searchlight-like glance from her huge, liquid eyes.

  “On to the bed wit yer,” she said to me. “On to the bed and lie as flat as yer can.”

  “But... I...” I began to protest.

  “Stop yer blarney and on to the bed wit yer. Breeda, go and get me some one-inch gauze bandage and some adrenalin. Quickly now.”

  I lay down obediently and immediately discovered that the blood that had been running out of my nose now ran down the back of my throat and threatened to asphyxiate me. I sat up hurrie
dly.

  “I told yer to lie down,” said Pimmie ominously.

  “Pimmie, dear, I can’t. I’ll choke on my own blood.”

  I explained. Pimmie flicked a couple of pillows behind my head with practised ease.

  “There now, is that better?” she inquired.

  “Yes,” I said.

  Breeda had returned with a dish containing the things Pimmie had asked for. The bed was now bestrewn with blood-stained paper handkerchiefs and there were five nurses clustered round my recumbent form.

  “Kiss me, Hardy,” I implored, holding out my arms to Pimmie.

  “Quit yer blathering,” she said severely, “and let me get this up yer nose.”

  With great deftness she proceeded to plug my right nostril with a yard or so of bandage soaked in adrenalin as neatly and as impersonally as though she was stuffmg a chicken. Then she pinched the bridge of my nose firmly between finger and thumb, at the same time applying ice to my temples. I now had trickles of blood and water soaking into my pyjamas, but very soon the blood burst through the bandage and fell in great gouts on the sheets and pillow cases. Pimmie replaced the bandage with a fresh one. The bed and the room now looked like a cross between an abattoir and the front parlour of the Marquis de Sade after an evening’s soirée. Several bandages later, the blood was still flowing merrily. By this time all the nurses, with the exception of Pimmie and Breeda, had departed.

  “It’s no good,” said Pinimie, frowning ferociously, “I’ll just have to tell the doctor. Lie still now. Breeda, see that he lies still.”

  She left the room.

  “I hope she hasn’t gone to get Dr Grubbins,” I said uneasily. “Charming though he is, I lack confidence in him as a doctor.”

  “I hope for your sake she hasn’t gone to fetch him,” said Breeda placidly.

  “Why?” I inquired, alarmed.

  “Well,” said Breeda, “he’s not a good doctor at all. Honestly, if I had a patient who was ever so ill, I wouldn’t call him in. He’d kill them off for sure.”

  “That was rather the impression I gained,” I admitted. “He had a certain je ne sais quoi about him that led me to suppose that he had not as yet passed the stage of pouring boiling pitch over the stump.”